


Reconciliation

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Tumblr Fics [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Reconciliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade watched as Sherlock's reputation was ruined by his co-workers, and then was forced to deal with the man's death. Anderson didn't handle it well, but Donovan was always his partner. Somehow, despite the emotions between them, they need to continue to work together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Not sure whether you'd be inclined to write something from Lestrade's POV (also not sure whether you're looking to take more prompts), but just in case it strikes your fancy - I'd love to see something written with Lestrade & Donovan, between the 2nd and 3rd series, that addresses their relationship - working and/or personal. Donovan basically stabbed him in the back in Reichenbach, and yet everything seems business as usual in TSo3. There has to be more to the story than that, right?
> 
> ____________________________________________________________
> 
> This series contains a stand alone stories that were prompted or otherwise posted on my tumblr page. They have not been beta'd and are just flights of fancy.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if you see any mistakes.

After the shock, the funeral, the confusion, and the inquisition, Lestrade found himself with a forensic analyst on the verge of a mental breakdown and a Sergeant who was apparently too good of a cop to lose. No one knew why Sherlock jumped to his death, just that he did. The ominous ‘they’ told Lestrade that while it was unfortunate, it was best this way. He was lucky he didn’t lose his job. Case closed; go back to work. 

Lestrade didn’t want to go back to work. 

He took a grievance leave, needing some time to himself to get his head on straight. He turned off his alarm for the first time in years, silenced his phone, and slept like the dead. Not the best analogy, all things considered, but Lestrade found his humor turning blacker and blacker as time passed. 

He woke up and sat on his couch, elbows pressed to his knees and thumbs grinding into his eyes. He took deep breaths to keep himself calm. It didn’t help. He should call someone. He knew that. Talking was supposed to help. Except he wasn’t strong enough right now to talk to John or Molly, he wasn’t bold enough to talk to Mycroft, and he didn’t want to foist his problems onto an old woman like Mrs. Hudson. There was no one else to talk to about this. The people at work believed Sherlock a fraud, and he was more than willing to beat them into submission if it would make matters better. 

When he was hungry he walked into his kitchen and looked at the food like it would magically make itself. Sometimes he would see Sherlock’s ghost sliding through walls as phantom echoes of pots clanking and knifes chopping reminded him of the detective’s Saint-like patience during their many cooking lessons. 

Lestrade threw up immediately at the thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He never got drunk. 

He had spent too much time trying to beat how substance abuse was bad into Sherlock’s head to do that. He refused to use it as a crutch, though he would have liked to. It would have been nice to just black out every few days in a pool of vomit and feel like it accomplished something. It never did.

Donovan showed up on his fifth day of leave, and he slammed the door in her face. He needed more alcohol to deal with her right now, and he had already decided that he wasn’t going to get drunk. So there.

She came back the next day.

And the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Until finally his resolve faded and he conceded that this would never end until they had this chat she was dying to have. 

Another poor choice of words. 

He didn’t particularly care. 

She sat on his sofa, barreling her way through his door the moment he hesitated in shutting it. He watched her do it, too exhausted and wrung out and unhappy to say a word about any of it. He closed the door behind her, and walked towards the sofa. He didn’t feel like sitting next to her, or even speaking with her, but she had her belligerent face on today, and he knew one of those two would have to be accomplished. He suspected he already knew which one. 

“Are you going to come back to work?” She asked him firmly.

“When my leave is over.” He replied tersely. He contemplated the merits of really telling her off, of finally unloading on her all the pain and hatred he felt. He could still hear the snikt of the cuffs clipping closed around Sherlock’s wrists as he arrested him that night. It turned his stomach into knots. More than any other emotion he felt about Sherlock’s death, was guilt. And that was directed inwards, always inwards. 

“I didn’t want him to die.”

“He didn’t kidnap those kids.” Lestrade hissed out, because he needed to say it. He needed to get this off his chest. Sally didn’t reply. She didn’t believe him, and thus far there was no evidence. Richard Brook had been found dead on a roof, and Sherlock was dead on the ground under it. Something happened on that rooftop. No one really knew what that was. 

Lestrade hated her for not having the evidence. He hated himself for not providing it. He hated that he’d become so dependent on Sherlock that he couldn’t even find the evidence to clear Sherlock’s name without Sherlock’s help. It was sickening. He probably didn’t even deserve his job as it was. Maybe it would be best to retire. 

“I’m sorry he died.” Sally informed him.

“That’s good of you. To feel sorry. That’s good. Are we done?” Lestrade knew he was lashing out, knew that as her superior he shouldn’t be acting this way. He didn’t care. He was off duty. He was on leave. She was the one harassing him. He didn’t care if this made her uncomfortable. A part of him almost hoped it would. 

“You knew him before he started consulting, ya? You were friends.”

“No, Donovan, I just let some stranger up under the police tape to see a body.” Sarcasm dripped from each word. He was shaking with fury, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

“Why did you let him in?”

“Why?” Lestrade laughed, shaking his had as he looked down at her. “Why? Because I had every reason to believe that he was going to be a useful asset to our team. Because he was brilliant and he deserved a second chance. Because someone needed to treat him like a human being for once in his damned life, and I was privileged to be that man. I did it because it was right.”

“He wasn’t a cop. He had no business-”

“He was bloody MI-6!” Sally recoiled as though she’d been struck. Lestrade had roared the words so loudly that they reverberated through the walls of his home. Her mouth opened and closed in shock, and Lestrade whole body was heaved forwards. He sucked in air as though it fought him for freedom, and his muscles ached from how tightly he’d clenched each one as he’d shouted. 

He’d held onto that secret for years, almost a decade now. It had cut into his body and latched onto his hindbrain like a leech refusing to remove itself. He had never told another living soul, but now Sherlock was dead and it didn’t matter that Sally knew because he’d already been foolish enough to leap off a building in the first place. 

“What?” Sally breathed the word out, and Lestrade scowled at her. 

“He was MI-6. He’d been taken off active duty when I met him. He was losing his mind trying to be a civilian, and since he had clearance, and could actually help, since he had skills that were designed to help, I let him. Of course he was never bloody paid for working with us – the government paid him directly. Of course he saw things no one else did, he worked in the damn field longer and with more of a focused interest than any of us did. He was brilliant at his job and he did it with obvious delight. Did you honestly think I’d just let any idiot on a crime scene? Without a reason?”

“What-what about John?”

“He was given permission by Sherlock’s superiors to act as an assistant since he wasn’t getting anywhere with you lot.” As much as Mycroft counted as such in any case. Mycroft knew about John, and therefore Lestrade was more than happy to stretch that truth just a touch. 

“He…never said.”

“Of course he never said! What kind of MI-6 agent goes around telling people that’s what he does for a living?! I don’t even think John fully knew what Sherlock was getting up to half the time!” Lestrade knew that was true. Sherlock had complained about it once when he’d been in a particularly bad mood. John had made a comment about how Sherlock never did anything at all if he wasn’t working for the Met. Sherlock mumbled that it wasn’t fair he wasn’t allowed to say anything. 

Lestrade had been more impressed by the fact that he had bothered to listen to his brother for once in his life and hadn’t said anything. He only knew because of the circumstances of their meeting. Mycroft had made it relatively clear that he wasn’t meant to share any information to John about his operations with the government unless given strict permission. For all of Sherlock’s bluffs and blunders: he didn’t actively try to undermine his brother’s authority when it came to matters of the state. Sherlock had kept his mouth shut. 

Aside from the occasional complaints: He honestly thinks I do nothing all day. Really. Me? Nothing? Can you imagine that? 

“So you’re right. I let a civilian in on our cases. I did it because he wasn’t really a civilian, and at the end of the day he was saving lives.”

“He got off on it. He-”

“Why are you a cop Donovan?” 

“What?”

“Why did you become a cop. Did you do it because you liked the job? Because you wanted to save some lives?” Sally bit her lip. “Here’s a newsflash for you: Sherlock loved his job. He wanted to stop crimes, it wouldn’t be a puzzle to him if he already knew the answer. He was a great man…a good man, and he’s dead now.” Lestrade took a deep breath and then forced himself to look away from Sally’s dumbfounded expression and out towards the rest of the flat. 

He’d known Sherlock for almost a decade. He’d like to say that he had been close to the man, and counted amongst his friends. That would have been nice. Sherlock was always so tetchy about calling a fruit a fruit, but Lestrade hoped that before he died Sherlock knew that they were friends. He didn’t want Sherlock to have died thinking that Lestrade had betrayed him. 

“I’m sorry.” Sally murmured. 

“Just go.” Lestrade commanded. 

She did. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He went back to work. He had to. Sitting around the flat was starting to make him believe in ghost stories. Every sound in the night woke him; ever creak on the floor alarmed him. He was jumpy and uncomfortable, and he just needed to work. He needed a distraction, and catching criminals was the only thing that he had going for him at the moment. 

Sally was still his Second-In-Command. He didn’t care. He just needed to work and do his job, and stop thinking about how bad everything had gotten. He wanted to stop concentrating on the past and start looking towards the future. It was the only thing that was going to set any of this right. 

He wasn’t sure he ever went home for more than two or three hours at a time. He went to the office, he followed all procedures, he filled out all of his paperwork, and then he fell asleep at his desk. He woke up in the early morning, went home to shower and change, and then returned to the office. 

Sally noticed. 

She started bringing him coffee. She kept her consoling words to herself. That was more than the suspected she usually gave people. Maybe she had her own brand of guilt. He doubted it. Sally was a proud woman. She wouldn’t be swayed for anything. It just wasn’t done. 

They caught thieves, murderers, gang bangers, and thugs. They slapped cuffs on kids and adults alike. Each time the cuffs slapped closed, Lestrade remembered Sherlock’s wrists encircled in silver. He stopped doing it himself. He wasn’t sure he could handle the disappointment when the criminal he was controlling turned around and wasn’t him. 

He ate out more often than he would have like. Over and over and over. Sherlock had once given him a lecture on how to know which restaurant was sanitary and which one was good enough to eat at. Lestrade had remembered that lecture. It was more relevant than most. 

He ate at his desk, thumbing through cold cases and trying to think like Sherlock. What would he look for? What would he see? What little piece of information was most important? Half the time, Lestrade was certain he was going round the bend. 

Sally dropped a bag full of Chinese food on his desk one evening. He frowned at it and then looked up at her suspiciously. “It’s not poisoned.” 

“No. I suppose you’d be smarter than that.” Lestrade snapped at her, before catching himself. He took a deep breath, and then sighed. “Thank you.” She nodded her head and began divvying out the meals. The DI found the spring rolls and started in on them. Sherlock wouldn’t have been impressed. “He didn’t like spring rolls?” The question startled Lestrade, and he looked at Sally blankly for a moment. “You said he wouldn’t have been impressed…Sherlock. He didn’t like spring rolls?” 

“No…no, he did. He’s particular on how they’re prepared.” Sally nodded slowly.

“I don’t think I ever saw him eat anything.” 

“He had strange food habits. He doesn’t eat frequently, but when he finally indulges he either makes it himself or he goes to a place he thoroughly vetted first.” Lestrade smiled slightly at the memory. 

“He ran background checks on his chefs?” Sally sounded scandalized. 

“He didn’t give a damn what the chef had on their CV, so long as their food was fresh and their kitchens were clean.” Lestrade snapped back. Sally grimaced, but nodded again. They continued to eat in silence. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sally asked him questions. 

Weeks passed. Months passed. 

The questions continued. 

“Did he have a family?” 

“Did he have friends other than John?” 

“Did he ever go on holiday?”

“Did he have a girlfriend…boyfriend…?”

She never asked about the missions. She never asked about the cases. She never asked about his job. She just asked…about him. Lestrade found that it made things easier. He liked talking about Sherlock. He liked remembering him as a good man. He even liked remembering him as a bad friend. He was still alive, and that was what was so important. 

Lestrade started to see a grief counselor. That helped too. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sally and Phillip broke up for good. She claimed it was because he lost his mind, he claimed it was because he realized how much he loved his wife. Lestrade wasn’t sure which one was true. He thought that was ironic. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sherlock’s one-year anniversary came and went. Lestrade tried calling Victor. Sally had asked what Sherlock was like before all of the cases and Baker Street. All Lestrade knew had been about Victor, his best friend who walked out of his life and didn’t even go to his funeral. Lestrade had called the man several times over the years. He never picked up. He never called back. Sometimes Lestrade hated Victor more than Sally. At least Sally had made her antagonism well known. Victor had just left without saying a word. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sally stayed with him through it all. Lestrade wished he could hate her for that. He didn’t. As time passed, he was grateful that there was someone who did know about Sherlock. She never claimed to like him, and that likely would never change. Sherlock was dead and gone, but Sally was still there.

She listened to him talk. She was willing to cuff the people they arrested. She didn’t argue with him at all. He didn’t expect her to, and at least she was there. It was nice. Somewhat. 

The pain started to heal. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The jokes started up again. Just when the anger over a series of thefts from a gang that so obviously did it go without justice, the jokes start up again. Sally teases him, she smiles, she encourages him, and she stands there and listens as he starts shouting at the world. It’s not really about the world. It hasn’t been in a long time. 

“He was my friend!” Lestrade finally unleashes. It’s late, and no one else is on their floor. Everyone with half a brain left already. “He was my friend, and I wish to God he wasn’t dead, but all I hear day in and day out from your ex, is how many ways he could still be alive, and he isn’t. He isn’t alive. He’s dead. He’s dead, and there’s nothing that’s going to come of it.”

“I’m sorry.” Sally tells him at long last. It’s almost two years too late. Lestrade looks up at her and wishes it didn’t fix something broken inside of him, but it did. Hearing her apologize meant something. It meant that at least she understood that it was wrong. It meant that all this time hadn’t been for nothing. 

“How can I trust you?” Lestrade asked her quietly. He looked down at his desk. There was still so much crime and death and destruction. There was still so much that needed to be done. If Sherlock was here…if Sherlock was here…

Sally stepped forwards and reached for a shoebox that Lestrade had packed up in the first week after Sherlock had died. He’d tossed it on a filing cabinet and not looked at it since. Now, she took hold of it and she brought it from its resting place. She turned and she held it out to him.

“Nothing I say will help you with that. You’ll have to determine that yourself, whatever it is you choose. Until that time, I hope you’ll at least take my advice.” She pushed the box into his arms. “You need to say goodbye, and you need to move on.” She nodded her head to the box, and then stepped back. 

His fingers tightened around the edges and he squeezed his eyes closed. He let out a long breath of air. She was right. 

He had to move on. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They would never be friends. Not like they once were, or once could have been. There was too much pain and regret between them. Lestrade would never willingly let her come to harm, but he would also not stop her or restrict her from choosing to leave if that’s what she wanted to do. 

They joked with each other at crime scenes, they fell into a familiar and friendly rhythm. It was nice and comfortable and relaxing. It was a good working relationship. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than what most people had.

Despite the fact that she betrayed a man he thought highly of, Lestrade knew that he could do worse than Sally Donovan. She did her job, and she did it well. If there was one thing that he was certain to ensure, though, was now he gave her all the facts. He didn’t do that before, and it cost him a friend’s life. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. 

No matter what.

**Author's Note:**

> Got a prompt you want filled? Want to just say hi? Let me know!
> 
> falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


End file.
